


In the Moonlight

by claudinedelyon



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Back Together, M/M, also kind of a missing scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudinedelyon/pseuds/claudinedelyon
Summary: “Can I come closer?” He asks, not acknowledging Martino’s threat to climb out the window. His expression is hard to decipher from where he is and in the semi-darkness of the room, but he doesn’t seem ready to bolt. Nico chooses to take it as encouraging.“Why would you want to crawl under the bed?” Under the edge of wariness, there is surprise, perhaps confusion, in Martino’s voice.“You’re under the bed,” Nico replies with a small shrug.
Relationships: Niccolò Fares/Martino Rametta
Comments: 16
Kudos: 91





	In the Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [sensory prompt](https://heir-to-the-diamond-throne.tumblr.com/post/151164415366/64-sensory-prompts): "the empty space that can’t be breached between you in bed".

From the hallway, come barely hushed whispers and the unmistakable sound of bodies rushing to press against a door. Niccolò can almost see them, scrambling to get the best spot and to be in a position to share all the gossip with the slower, less fortunate ones who end up further away from all the action.

Pushing their friends aside for now, Nico turns his attention back to the shape under the bed. The thought crosses his mind that under any other circumstances, their situation would probably be hilarious.

“Can I come closer?” He asks, not acknowledging Martino’s threat to climb out the window. His expression is hard to decipher from where he is and in the semi-darkness of the room, but he doesn’t seem ready to bolt. Nico chooses to take it as encouraging.

“Why would you want to crawl under the bed?” Under the edge of wariness, there is surprise, perhaps confusion, in Martino’s voice.

“You’re under the bed,” Nico replies with a small shrug. Martino doesn’t answer, but he pushes himself further away to make room, so Niccolò gets down on his stomach to join him. It’s a tight fit for the two of them under there, and yet there is still a strip of floorboard between them that, although narrow, seems almost impossible to breach. “Very cozy,” he comments when Martino finally looks up to meet his eyes.

“That’s hardwood floors for you.”

“You picked that spot, not me.”

Behind the door, some kind of deliberation seems to be taking place, and then with careful steps and restrained laughter, the others leave one by one. Nico waits, keeping his ears trained until someone breathes out a stern “Luchi!” There’s a bang against the door, a muffled curse, then two people running away and finally, silence.

“Do you think they’re coming back to let us out?”

“No way,” Martin retorts, extending one arm between them to scratch his head while Nico tracks the motion.

The past few weeks seem to be trying to squeeze themselves between them. The air feels so thick, it may actually be even longer than that, it may be the nineteen months since they first met, and if neither of them addresses it, they might suffocate with it. At least Nico will.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Luai.”

Martino looks away and picks at a thread on his jeans.

“Why didn’t you? I asked you so many times.”

“Because there’s some stuff I couldn’t tell you. And it didn’t matter anyway.”

The short huff of air that follows his words manages to sound annoyed and it is enough to tell him that this is already threatening to turn into the same conversation they keep having over and over without making any progress.

“It mattered to me,” Martino replies.

“You still don’t trust me?”

Silence keeps threatening to engulf them both and Martino takes so long to answer this time that Niccolò starts to worry that it actually will this time and that there won’t be any way to come back from it.

“I don’t know.”

A year and a half later, almost to the day, and still the same answer.

Holding back a sigh and trying to ignore the hole that seems to have opened up in his stomach, Niccolò rests his forehead down over his hands, a position which he finds oddly reminiscent of the yoga classes his mom insists on dragging him to every once in a while. They’ve never been much help. Yoga’s too slow, too restrained. Niccolò has never been very good at either slow or restrained.

He’s worried about silence again, because there are so many questions he would like to ask that neither of them can answer. Will Martino ever know? How long can Niccolò keep trying before he loses himself completely?

Looking up, his eyes meet a pair of Silvia’s shoes, delicate, silvery, that lay on the floor right in front of him, illuminated by the moonlight.

Niccolò has always loved the moonlight, the way it softens the darkness, somewhere between pitch black and the sometimes too harsh light of day. Nothing usually looks quite as sharp or daunting in the moonlight. Nothing except this moment.

“Nobody ever picks me first,” Martino says next to him, and his voice is so low, Nico isn’t quite sure he hasn’t imagined it at first. But when he turns back to Martino, he seems to have hunched in on himself.

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's not.” Martino scoffs and Nico twists his torso to the side, encroaching ever-so-slightly on the empty expanse of floorboards between them. “It’s not, Marti. You know how I know that? Because I picked you, I always picked you and I always will, but you won’t believe it.” He wishes he could convey how much he means it with his tone, with a gesture, by reaching out, anything. Instead, they’re stuck under a bed and the words come out almost defeated. It might be what hurts the most, that still today, after everything, Martino continues to doubt him.

“But you picked Maddalena first. And even before, you loved Luai first.”

The way Martino utters Luai’s name is still full of spite and Niccolò wishes he could do something about it now. Unfortunately, it will have to be a problem for later. There are only so many fronts he can fight this battle on at a time.

Niccolò rests his chin over his hands again and lets himself look at Martino while he ponders his answer. Now that he’s grown accustomed to the darkness, he traces the tense lines of his face, his puffy eyes which have at some point filled with unshed tears, the unhappy turn of his mouth and the taut way he’s holding himself, as if to protect himself against an invisible assailant.

“You never stopped to think that maybe what really mattered is that I picked you last?” Martino is looking back. He hadn’t been before, his eyes had been turned in Nico’s general direction, but they had seemed far away. They’re not anymore. “Luai’s still my friend, but I love you. I broke up with Maddalena. You’re always the one I pick.”

Martino sniffles and for a long, seemingly endless moment, Nico is certain he’s going to say it’s not enough, that it’s too little, too late, that there is nothing more to fix. His heartbeat stutters.

“I’ll always pick you too.”

Possibly by some magic trick, because Nico had not noticed it before, Martino’s right hand now rests between them, right in the middle of the empty space. Nico extends his own hand, reaches out until they’re almost touching. He doesn’t completely breach the gap, though, and lets Martino take the decisive step. Martino, who looks at their hands but doesn't move. Nico doesn’t want to break the moment or rush anything, not when they’re this close to finding their way back to each other, but the waiting feels impossible to withstand, so he closes his eyes and tries to listen to the noises of the house.

And then, Martino’s finger brushes against his knuckles. The sensation is deeply familiar, a small, reassuring gesture that tastes of cigarette and shines bright red.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

Nico’s chest expands like that of a drowning man who has breached the surface of the water after holding his breath for too long. He opens his eyes and meets Martino’s, the unshed tears now all dried out. Martino blinks and laces their fingers together.

“Can we please get out from under this fucking bed now?” Niccolò whispers, to avoid shattering the still too fragile moment. Martino smiles, it’s small and still a little dim, but to Nico it shines as bright as the full moon dancing on the surface of a pool.

They let go of each other before Martino rolls out on his side and Nico crawls back out. Silvia’s bed stands between them while they size up each other, and then Nico’s knee is resting on the bedcover, Martino’s lips are on his and their hands are clutching at clothes, grabbing at Nico’s neck or running through Martino’s hair.

They fall together on the mattress in a tangle of limbs, desperately clinging to each other. Martino pulls back just long enough to peel his shirt off, and as Nico burrows into the pillows, ready to lose himself again to the feeling of Martino’s body against his, it briefly occurs to him that everything does feel much softer on this side of the bed.


End file.
